


Ouroboros

by lilith_babylon



Category: Doctor Who, Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: F/M, Masturbation, Robots, Science
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-11
Updated: 2015-01-11
Packaged: 2018-03-07 04:26:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,482
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3161180
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lilith_babylon/pseuds/lilith_babylon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A prompt on the kink meme requested Alt!Timeline Bearded Doctor locked in the tower and wanking to thoughts of Hell on High Heels. And then it prompted a discussion of how the mechanics of that would work within the confines of a robot worked by tiny people, or at least, by one tiny person. So this is my answer.  Cross-posted to the dont_wander_off lj community</p>
            </blockquote>





	Ouroboros

**Author's Note:**

> If you've seen this elsewhere under a locked post in the archive, it's all right; that is my alter ego account but I'm moving this story over here as well to post it more publicly :)

\----

"Despite what you may think of us, we are champions of law and order just as you are," the Captain said, and the Doctor suppressed a laugh. All those data banks, all those files and records, and they still had no idea who he really was.

The Captain asked one last question. "Is there nothing else we can do?"

Well. Now that they mentioned it, he did have a bit of a brilliant plan.

\-----

The worst thing about this brilliant plan was that its main component was absolute secrecy. Which meant that he couldn't, of course, just ask the Captain to borrow his very clever robot for a while in order to sneak out of a rather tight fixed point in time and oh-by-the-way destroy it in the process. But he _could_ ask where and when it was made, do a bit of reading up on the era, and steal it from the scrap heap after the Retribution Project funding had been cut. And there was a certain poetic justice to plucking the Tesselecta out of the end of its time stream, given as that had been its main mission throughout its existence.

Melted down at a top secret ninety-seventh century compacting facility, or burned like a viking in a boat in twenty-first century Utah; the laws of Time wouldn't tell the difference. But the thing about absolute secrecy, he realized as he fled with his prize back into the Vortex, was that it also meant that there was no one here with him to stand around looking impressed. So that was a bit rubbish.

\-----

Instantiating direct neural control across the boundaries of a compression field was no easy task, and there were plenty of horror stories in the robot's R&D phase that spelled out plainly why the Retribution Project had abandoned the option. Truthfully the technology to achieve such a thing wouldn't be available until millennia after anyone would have thought justice-dispensing time-traveling robots worked by tiny people was in any way a sane idea, and compression fields had already gone out of fashion.

It took the Doctor a good thirty minutes of thinking to work out the details and another three hours to implement them. He cannibalized the robot's drive systems and built a dual-level control mechanism, with layer one enabling simultaneous rudimentary outward-facing functionality as well as internal mobility of his real body, and layer two enabling a completely integrated psycho-neurological control structure, that translated any impulses, thoughts, commands, or autonomic responses directly from his brain to the outer shell.

After a day of learning to maneuver at layer one, he sat tentatively in the captain's chair, and initiated layer two control. He nearly burnt out his synapses before realizing he'd done the compression inversions wrong. It took two days to recover, and his nerves felt on fire for a week afterward.

The second time, he got it too right. Five days after initiating layer two integration, he disentangled himself enough to pull away from the interface and then collapsed onto the floor after two wobbly steps away from the command chair back toward the TARDIS. He optimized his metabolism as best he could and then programmed a failsafe switch into the interface to boot himself out of layer two control so he could take care of silly things like eating, drinking, shaving, and various other privacies. It was set to go off every forty-eight hours, or upon getting shot by an impossible astronaut on the shores of Lake Silencio. Whichever came first. As he set off to meet the Ponds, he was confident that it would be the latter. After all, he'd made plans for a reunion, a picnic, and escape from certain death in the span of a late April afternoon, possibly stretching into evening.

He didn't count on not actually getting shot. He didn't count on navigating the effects of a bubble of non-perceptive static time worked through a compression field across the delicate layer two neural interface of a picky ninetieth century robot that was too clever for its own good.

He certainly didn't count on River Song.

\---

Time was still passing for him, of a sort. His cells aged, pushing the sensation out as an affectation of this outer shell. He could feel the tingling sensation of _wrongness_ of everything around him, but it was a detached, dreamlike perception. He'd awoken--or, the robot had, it was getting difficult to tell the difference-- _in media res_ , with a brand new history compressed into a timeline of a scant few microseconds as efficiently as his real body was compressed into the Tesselecta's control room. Now and forever he was disoriented/suffocating/panicking as his mind struggled to cope with the cacophony of sensations bombarding it across the compression field. Now and forever he was adapting/learning/integrating as the soothsayer's history unfolded, dizzying and non-linear, around the central nexus point of his time-starved body. He had to re-learn everything. He wasn't sure how well he managed to do that.

Now and forever he was trapped immobile in an inescapable tower, and he couldn't tell if it was because of the chains securing him to the wall or the interface paralyzing his nerves. Damn that impossible woman, what in the name of Time had she done?

\---

In the cold, dark tower, in what passed for night in a timeless universe, the Doctor dreamed of hell in high heels. Try as he might to ignore her, River Song was the other nexus point in this loop in time, and she spun ceaselessly through his thoughts, driving them to places he didn't want to go. He closed his eyes and there was River, smoothing her hand across his brow, leaving lingering touches behind his ears. River, teasing apart his lips with a warm kiss. River, trailing her hands down his body, igniting sensations that he'd not felt for so, so long, sensations that burst into being and receded again into a dull empty ache. An overwhelming desire to be touched settled across the strange landscape of his perceptions and he couldn't . . . he _wouldn't_ give in to her. It was all her fault he was here, after all.

He thunked his head back against cold, hard resistance and clenched his hands into fists. Even so, he pictured his fingers sinking into her soft, mad curls, directing her passion deliciously downward. His hands unclenched and he found his cock through the layers of dirty fabric, imagining her warm mouth taking him in, imagining her tongue running along his shaft as she clutched his hips, small noises of pleasure escaping past her ministrations.

Please, oh yes, more, he whispered, calling her name like a record stuck repeating as the sensation built a strange double echo across his skin. River, River, River--

He bit his tongue against the rising pleasure and forced his hand to stillness, rousing himself half awake behind closed eyes in the formless room. River, who had stopped time. She'd _stopped time_ \--for him--and it shouldn't turn him on because it was foolish and dangerous and horrifying and . . . and, and, and.

And since when had that been anything but intoxicating?

His resolve crumbled. Oh River, he thought, sinking back into the dream, whatever am I to do about you?

 _Sweetie_ , her dream form answered, phantom fingers trailing intimately down his bare chest. _You'll just have to lie back and take what's coming_.

His hips bucked as he imagined her taking him in again, down to the root, her devilish tongue working its way along his shaft until sparks burst behind his eyes with every flick and wet caress. He sighed as she dug her nails into his thighs and moved him with her, harder, faster--yes, River, like that--River, please don't stop, whatever you do, please. He imagined her relenting, circling him with the pressure of wet fingers and sucking him shallower and faster until the pure undirected need pushed up out of him with a gasp and a cry. River, I'm so sorry, it's a secret and I can't stop it, I can't tell you--I can't--I--

He groaned against the hardness in his grasp, bit his lip and came shamelessly as this dark,half-formed world unraveled around him. Explosions lit behind his closed eyes and he found himself crying her name and simply coming apart, the sensation too big to be contained any longer. There was time and timelessness, infinity and pure transience wrapped around each other in defiance of any dimension he could sense, all of it at once all--

He shuddered as the long-forgotten failsafe kicked in with a jolt, depositing him reeling and still rock-hard into the Tesselecta's control room. He gasped and rose to his knees.

Brilliant plan. Absolute secrecy. Damn that woman, he thought, scrubbing his hands across his unshaven face, he still had to finish the job.

\----


End file.
